Home.
Eight years since Edmund gazed upon the battlements of Thoxily. Eight long, hot years in the Holy Lands before a peace reached. It was time to shake the sand from his boots and settle before the fire of his own hearth, but first family obligations to attend.
Would his mother still be alive? Father- did he recover from the running bowels which laid him low and ultimately caused him to ask Edmund to take his place in the Crusade? What of Robert and Arthur, his brothers? Little Janet, she would be sixteen now, maybe a tot tugging at her skirts. So much changed in the time spent at war, but what?
And what of his betrothed? Leandra? Or was it Laurel? Liza? Whatever her name, would she be waiting for him as well? Did she even remember the ceremony? She was four at the betrothal, and he, a solid lad of ten. It's been fourteen years, now she should be ready for the breeding of children. Liza-Laural-Leandra had been sent off to a convent, he was told. The good nuns would teach her a wife's duty.
Would she be an adept cook? The thought of hot food tempted Edmund. Would she sew well? His clothes were sewn by unskilled hands—that of his squire. Well-fitting clothes appealed to him. And a warm body to lie against at night. Especially since October in England felt cold after years in the Levant. A warm, eager body. That, Edmund thought, would be the best part of married life. Could a man wear himself nigh unto death by fucking his wife? Edmund planned on testing that idea, provided his bride, if ugly, didn't mind tupping in the dark all winter long. Beget a legion of sons, an army of daughters and wed them well. By doing so, Edmund of Thoxily would be remembered as being a patriarch, united with a warring house and siring a legacy. 'Tis as good a life as any knight could want. His betrothed has lands, lands that will be his once a child born of their union. A child and an estate. Worse things were asked of men.
The Midlands of England gave way to the forested hills of Cannock Chase, to the clearing where Thoxily stood, silhouetted against the rising sun. Edmund was so close to home, he could almost smell the porridge simmering over Cook's fire. Warm bread, cheese and ale. Mayhap smoked ham. It would be a good way to finish the morning. Breakfast in one's own home- such a heavenly thought that heated the blood and spurred Edmund forth. A warm bath and a feather bed awaited. A comely maiden to warm that bed. That was a must. The road to Thoxily's gates passed beneath horse hooves. Even the destrier seemed to know where the path ended. Home.
As Edmund drew near, he could see the portcullis down, barring the entry to the castle's courtyard. Edmund of Thoxily and two dozen men stopped before the portcullis and called up to the gatehouse.
"Unbar the gate!"
A woman's voice answered. "By whose authority?"
Incredulousness socked Edmund in the gut. Where is Sir Turlough? Who was this woman in the gatehouse, denying him entry? "By mine. Now open the castle to me and my men." Impatience wore on the knight's near-to-last nerve. Being denied entry into his home, by a woman other than his mother, stoked the fires of ire. Who was this wench that acted a dragon in his home?
The disembodied voice replied, "Wrong answer."
Edmund's squire, Percy, exclaimed, "We're under attack sir!"
Then, in lieu of further spoken communication, this mysterious woman who guarded Castle Thoxily opted for clay pots filled with excrement thrown down upon Edmund and his men. Horses danced, upset at the stink as pottery shards flew everywhere. All the mounted men raised their shields high to keep the foul bombardment off their heads.
"Stop! Open the gates or get Sir Turlough, Lord Edgar or Lady Mirian to vouch for me. They will attest I bring no harm to Thoxily or its people!" The rain of shit ceased, which Edmund thanked God for.
The voice came from the arrow slit on the left tower. "You say you know Lady Mirian. If you can answer three questions about her and her family, I shall allow you entry to see her. Upon her judgment will the rest of your men be permitted entry. If you agree to these terms, you will leave your arms outside the castle wall."
"Very well." As soon as his mother vouched for him, the quicker he can put this uppity female into her place. Where is Sir Turlough? The captain of arms should have spoken, or at least a man-at-arms, not this woman.
"It's not safe, milord," Percy whispered. "Your home has been taken over by harpies. Who knows how many lurk inside? It could be a trap."
That woman spoke again, "The first question. What is Lady Mirian's youngest sister's name?"
"Lady Catherine of Haverleigh Castle." Edmund rolled his eyes. Anyone with an idea of Thoxily's heritage would know such things. Legacies are built around family dynastic maneuvers.
"The second question. What are the names of Lady Mirian's children, in birth order?"
"Robert, Edmund, Jane and Arthur." The questions she asked were too easy to answer, Edmund thought.
"What is the name of Lord Edmund's betrothed?"
Edmund bit his tongue a moment before answering. "The answer I have is not complete. I know her name starts with an L, and that as a child, this girl had large green eyes and honey blonde hair. She was solemn, yet as soon as the betrothal ceremony was over and before the feast began, the little girl bolted for the meadows and proceeded to get muddy by chasing the lambs. Her mother laughed as Lord D'Monfort scolded the girl with a lopsided grin on his face." Nearly a scandal, with how un-upset her parents were. Hopefully the convent will have dampened the exuberance of youth with modesty and contemplation.
Slowly and with much creaking, the iron portcullis raised enough for Edmund to pass under. He dismounted his horse and left it in Percy's care with his sword before striding into the castle proper. Things seemed shabbier than he remembered. The stables were in need of repair and more thatch. Chickens were scrawny and the ever-ringing of hammer against anvil which Edmund grew up with was silent. Where is everyone? He could hear the portcullis rumbling closed behind him.
"Well Nameless One, you best have a good reason to keep your identity secret."
Edmund turned to face that voice.
She walked down the stairway leading from the battlements atop the gatehouse to the courtyard below. This vision wasn't as tall as he, but her light brown hair and dark eyes caught his admiration, as did her womanly body. Perhaps he'd gone too long without a woman's touch, being that he didn't visit any bawdy houses after arriving in London. No time was wasted getting home, and months of tension centered themselves in his loins as soon as he made eye contact with the owner of the voice.
Dressed in a long blue tunic over brown hose and boots, the woman's attire seemed odd at best. A dagger and sword both hung from her belt and in her grasp, a long bow. She was young, but seemed far older for the authority carried in her voice.
"Do you need lessons in the use of the steel you wear? I'd be more than happy to volunteer." Edmund could imagine the encounter—unclothed, and the only stiff bit of steel being the one throbbing in his trews.
With a bright smile the warrior woman replied, "I need no lesson."
Edmund looked around, noting the absence of people in the bailey. "Where are the men-at-arms?"
"They are tending the sheep."
"Why are they not at practice with their weapons?"
"Because I am here and there is no need."
"You? Surely you only walk around armed when the menfolk are away, lest they beat you for your impudence and send you to tend the cattle as a proper milk maid."
"Mock me if you will, but make an error in manners and you will see why men-at-arms are not needed."
The audacity bubbling forth from this woman amused Edmund. "I will make no error. But I would love to see you prove the words coming from your mouth."
"Very well." The warrior woman laid down her bow and unbuckled the sword from her belt and tossed it aside. With a smile and wicked gleam in her eye, she said to Edmund, "Try to take the knife out of my belt. I dare you."
Edmund laughed. "If you insist." Then he lunged for her with the intention of getting her in a bear hug and subdue her by force. This woman couldn't be that skilled in hand-to-hand combat, not like he, a trained knight. He'd subdue and then seduce. The wench looked like a good tumble. He craved a good tumble.
With an acrobat's grace, she twirled out of reach and ended up behind him. With a kick to the back of his knee, he fell face first into the courtyard's mud. A knee held his neck down and Edmund could feel the knife slipping from the sheathe on his belt and then the cold tip against his throat.
"You missed. When I said you needed to be disarmed, I meant all weapons. As you can see for yourself, men-at-arms are not needed here. Mind your manners and you'll keep that pretty face." The knife receded and her knee lifted. "Next time I won't be so nice." The Voice relayed her message in a kindly tone reserved for the daft.
"Who are you?" Admiration and irritation mixed in Edmund's blood as he arose to his feet. She thinks I have a pretty face, Edmund thought. She'll be in my bed tonight.
"I am Daria, companion to Lady Mirian. Let me take you to her." Daria turned about and walked up the stairs to the keep after retrieving her sword, handing off her bow to an awaiting servant boy.
The knight could hardly imagine his mother having an amazon as a companion.
"Why is she not here to greet guests?" Edmund walked briskly to catch up.
Without a pause in step, Daria replied, "You will see. And the people stopping by as of late were not the friendly sort of folk."
"Where is Sir Turlough?" Turlough would answer questions. And would never have tossed the contents of a chamber pot on anyone's head.
"Sir Turlough died six months ago."
"And Lord Edgar?"
That question halted Daria in her tracks. She turned to face Edmund. "Lord Edgar died almost seven years ago. And before you ask, Lord Robert followed soon after. Lord Edmund is on crusade, Lady Jane has since married and Lord Arthur has joined the Church."
"And where do you come from, Daria?"
"I come from the place unwanted girls are cast. I come from a convent."
Edmund said nothing in response. Unwanted? Must be an orphan with no kith or kin or anyone of station to foster her. While her attitude could use adjusting, many men would beggar their future children to claim the beautiful Daria as a wife to parade at court.
They went through the hall, up the stairs, and finally, to the solar. Daria opened the door, and called out, "Lady Mirian, you have a visitor."
"Is it whom the watch saw?"
"Aye, my lady." Daria opened the door more and brought Edmund inside. "This man refused to give his name at the gate and said you could vouch for him."
Eight years.
Eight years since he had seen his mother. Lady Miriam gave him both his ink black hair and hazel eyes. Her hair now streaked with white and creases were etched into her face. It wasn't the visible signs of age that hit Edmund low. It was that his vibrant mother now lay wizened upon a bedstead, covered in furs.
One look from those sharp hazel eyes resulted in an excited, "Neddie! You are home safe!"
Daria paled and tried to excuse herself. "I will call the rest of your men into the castle, my lord. Excuse me, my lady."
"Nay! Have Alix call forth his men, you must stay here, my girl." The gleam grew in Mirian's eyes. "Edmund, you remember Daria, do you not?"
"I do not. Should I?" Edmund would never forget Daria had they met before. He moved his eyes from bottom to top, memorizing every curve of her body revealed by her clothing. Striking and silently arrogant, she lifted an eyebrow in challenge when his eyes meandered to her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are as green as a forest. That lip of hers begged to be kissed, replace that smirk with dazed wonderment. She must be a hellion in bed. He'd find out just how much tonight.
With a smile, Daria replied, "You described me so well at the gate, my lord. My name is Lysandaria, although your mother prefers the shorter version."
Lysandaria.
His betrothed wife. Not some convent-raised girl, meek and abiding. No. Lysandaria, a striding and assured sword-wielding Queen Cordelia reborn. The only child of Balin D'Montfort, a renowned knight who served his king and God gloriously in the last Crusade and known for his quick wit and quicker temper- which seemed bestowed upon his daughter, as well.
Lysandaria D'Montfort of Hulgravis Castle, heiress and apparent warrior.
His betrothed wife.
